Breakfast at Kiffany's
by Lucky Dice Kirby
Summary: On waitresses, bartenders, and bacon. ‹gen› ‹written for NYR at Yuletide›


People always say bartenders make great confidants, but they gossip to other people, whether they mean to or not. Working at a bar warrants a certain amount of drinking in itself, even if only after your shift is over. Waitresses are great, though. You just have to be lucky enough to get the kind who don't ask any questions, and take the strangest things in stride is all.

xxx

Rube had a routine. Every morning he woke up at six, waited for the list of who was to die to be slipped under his door. He copied down the names onto Post-Its and put them in his ledger. He showered and got dressed and he went to Der Waffle Haus, and he waited for the other reapers to get there. It usually went like this: Roxy, Daisy, George or Mason. It was always a toss-up as to whether George or Mason would get there first. Sometimes Mason didn't come until much too late, having spent the night getting completely hammered. And then there was the occasional time when Mason had spent the night in the booth and was there before any of them.

He didn't always order the same breakfast (After all the years he'd spent eating at Der Waffle Haus, that would get a little boring), but whatever it was he got it with a side of extra, extra, extra, _extra_ crispy bacon. Even if he somehow forgot to order it, Kiffany brought it anyway, along with extra coffee ("On the house." "What, Rube's a cop now? Fuck that, I'll be a fucking cop if it gets me free coffee." "Mason, they don't serve Irish coffee here." "Well that's bloody ridiculous, it's German, yeah? Germany and Irishland are pretty close together, I don't see why that can't have fucking Irish coffee." "It's Ireland, dumbass."), because he had to be pretty damn tired to forget his bacon.

After he ate his food he gave out the assignments, gave Mason a useless warning to not fuck it up this time, and watched them all leave. Then he would order another cup of coffee and read the paper, paying more attention to the obituaries than most people would. If he had a morning reap, he'd go and do it, if not, he'd stay for while. Eventually order lunch, still with the bacon. Rube really did love his bacon.

"Why do you always order bacon? And then jabber at me for who knows how long about how crispy you want it?" Kiffany asked him one day. A rather slow day, at that, for both the restaurant and reaping. Rube's reap wasn't until eleven o'clock at night, and the new pancake house across the street had been sapping some of Der Waffle Haus's customers. Mason and George had gone to investigate, and reported back that food there sucked ass, and no one who wasn't drunk or stoned off their ass would go back (Illustrated by the large amount of Mason's cohorts that reside there). Mason had gone back, several times, in fact.

"Well, I order it because I like it, and I like it burned to a crisp."

"Hmm, I guess that makes sense. I was just wondering if there was a story behind it. You always have so many stories, you know?"

Rube smiled pleasantly. "Nope, no story."

xxx

Rosie always loved it when Lucy cooked anything, really. She loved the smells, and she loved the look on her mother's face when she baked or grilled or simmered or sautéed. It was this pleasant, content look, as if she could just do this for the rest her life and be perfectly happy. Her favorite time was when Lucy made bacon for breakfast, because she could hear the oil sizzling and popping, and her mother pointed it out to her and laughed with Rosie when she giggled. Sometimes she would get so caught up that she would let the bacon get too crispy, but neither of them really cared, and neither did Rube. It always meant that his wife and his daughter were having fun and being happy if it was burnt to a crisp, and how could he dislike that?

xxx

"What do you mean you're out of bacon?"

"I mean we're out of bacon. Our new shipment never came in."

George looked a little guilty. Her reap two nights ago had been a drunk truck driver who drove his truck (Which just so happened to smell suspiciously of pork) off a rather inconveniently placed cliff.

"You're a fucking waffle house, how the hell can you not have bacon?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but waffle doesn't mean bacon, and it never did."

"Well, y'never know with Rube, Kiffany. He was in the fucking Trojan War, he's so old," Mason interjected from his slightly drunken slouch in the booth. "Reaped Achilles, he did," he added under his breath.

"Did I ask your opinion? You better just be thankful I still let you in here."

"Mason, go off to be a fuck-up already. It's better than being just a plain ass trying to be a smartass."

Mason's two beraters looked at each other in surprise as they told him off at the same time. Kiffany sighed.

"Would you like some sausage? We've got plenty of sausage."

"That would be lovely, Kiffany. And don't forget to make it extra, extra, extra,_extra_ crispy."

"Rube, is it really considered normal to have sausage that crispy?" Daisy asked.

"Is taking _souls_ for a living really considered normal?" Roxy asked, standing up. "I'm out of here."

"Have fun, Roxy. Try not to ruin too many people's lives with your fancy police work, yeah?" Mason said, earning a glare.

"You want me to shoot you again? Because I can, gladly."

"People, please. Is it too much to ask to eat my breakfast in peace?" Rube asked wearily, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

"What are you talking about? You don't have any breakfast yet!" George pointed out, gesturing to the empty table in front of Rube.

"He does now," Kiffany said, sliding a plate onto the aforementioned empty table.

"Thank you, Kiffany," Rube said with a smile, immediately, and with quite a bit of fervor, digging into his eggs.

The waitress smiled back at him. "I'll bring you some more coffee."

Daisy stood up, leaving her plate of fruit half-finished. "Well, duty calls," she said theatrically, dusting off the front of her blouse.

"Hey, are you gonna finish that?" Mason inquired, pointing to Daisy's plate.

"No, I'm not, but I won't have you eating off my old plate," came the reply.

"And I won't have it either. You don't go eating off of other people's plates," said Kiffany, having come back with a pot of coffee.

"Who said anything about eating off her plate?" Mason asked, scooping up the fruit into his pocket, "I'm a _real_ man. I don't need _plates_." He stuck a finger into the cottage cheese and licked it clean (Well, clean by Mason's standards), before getting up from the booth and leaving.

George made a face at his back, while Daisy looked slightly repulsed before following him. Kiffany shook her head and sat down at the booth.

"I really can't believe that one sometimes," she said disdainfully.

George nodded vigorously, before catching sight of her watch. "Oh shit, I'm gonna be late for work!" she said, hurriedly getting up.

"Don't fuck it up, Peanut!" Rube called good-naturedly over his shoulder.

The reaper continued to tear at his food enthusiastically. After a while, he took a few tentative bites of his sausage, and chewed thoughtfully.

"It's not quite the same," he concluded, continuing to eat.

Kiffany eyed him. "You sure there's not a story behind you and your bacon?"

Rube turned his head and pretended to think. "You know, now that you mention it, I think there is. Listen…"

xxx

"Hmm. I never would've guessed. You want some more coffee?"

"That would be lovely. I'll also have a patty melt and a side of fries, please."

"I think the new shipment of bacon came, so I'll get you some of that too," Kiffany said, walking back towards the kitchen.

xxx

And _that_ is the difference between waitresses and bartenders. If your bartender hears you saying strange things that don't really make much sense, they'd probably just cut you off. It's happened to Mason. Several times. Whereas a waitress (Well, okay, maybe it's just Kiffany) will listen and nod and go and get you more coffee.

* * *

Standard disclaimers, blah. Written for 2008 New Year's Resolution at Yuletide. 


End file.
